


Prompt for August 2018 - Working Title: Yonder

by missbibliophile



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 23:40:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15673623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbibliophile/pseuds/missbibliophile
Summary: A submission for a writing prompt for the month of July in the year 2018.





	Prompt for August 2018 - Working Title: Yonder

**Author's Note:**

> This is a submission for a writing prompt. We were given a single sentence to start off with, and this is what I continued. It may continue to be worked on long after the month of August has passed.

His contact said that by this time of the year he would have the information of his bounty. But there he was, rocking back in a chair, boots brandished on the top of the table. A half-used cigar between thick fingers and a drink in hand.

“What the hell is this?” He tossed aside the tin he had been drinking from. The amber liquid ruined the unvarnished floor and table. “Nothin’ but dog’s soup, this crap.” The outburst commanded glances and murmurs from surrounding patrons. They all returned to their own business once they saw it was nothing more than a slovenly drunk. Only one came forward to pick up the discarded cup. She cleared her throat in disgust. “Florence!” The drunk corrected his posture, checked his manners, and rushed to wipe down the nest of hair growing over his jawline. “What a sight! Come to give us a buss?” He took a moment to pucker his lips.

The woman rested a hand on her hip, the other holding the cup by its handle and ready to cause pain. “You bunko artist,” she said. “Don’t think I don’t remember what you did to my stud.”

“Aw. I ain’t done nothin’ to hurt him.” The man sat up straight and patted down the front of his vest.

She slammed the cup down on the table. The amount of force on the surface caused more reaction than the sound. “It’s dang buzzard bait! Run ragged ‘cause you hadda take care of your pocket more than take care the poor thing.”

“It still walks, eats, breathes!”

“Damn it!” Her hand fell down hard next to the cup. She fisted the hand on her hip until the knuckles turned white. “Conall, I swear to the good Lord Almighty that if you don’t-” One man got up and threw a punch. It contacted squarely on the cheek of another. Behind her, a ruckus broke out. A glass was thrown and shattered against the wall. “Hugo!” Her shout rang above the scuffle to the ears of a thin gentleman behind the bar. He stood at attention and nodded. Before things got too out of hand - already four tables were knocked over, several chairs thrown aggressively around, numerous items used as weapons, and about a pound of food lost - Hugo shouted out between cupped hands. His voice carried truer than his arms could carry his own weight in corn. It was enough to quiet down the patrons who joined in for a good fight. The two who refused to listen continued across the floor toward the stairs.

The swinging doors separating the main street and the bar were thrust open. Two gentlemen in denim and leather, holsters around the waist and shoulders stood in the doorway. Both fighters stopped to sneer at them. A last punch was thrown, and one of the men fell to the ground in a heap of torn fabric and bloody mess.

In sharp, pronunciated words, the portly of the two spoke out behind an overgrown mustache. “What the heck’s goin’ on here?” Florence shook her head and let out a heavy sigh. As she walked one way back to the bar, the two newcomers went the other toward the passed out fighter. “Better ain't be any disturbin’ the drinkers.” He stared down the one still standing while his quiet partner picked up the poor man fell from a left hook. “Both uh ya need some quiet time with us.”

Feet shuffled over the well-traveled wooden floor. Chairs groaned as they were moved around. A mumbled cacophony lulled over the room. Florence nodded to the authorities as they left with both brawlers. As everything settled, Conall got up and moved alongside a gentleman leaving for the street. He kept his head low and shoulders hunched.

“Go get the boys to help clean up the slop on the floor, Hugo.” Florence picked up the dish rag dropped on the counter as Hugo left into the hallway behind the counter. She started where he left off in cleaning the cups and counter. Three boys, appearing similar in age and in similar state of dress, followed Hugo into the busy front room with a mop, broom, and two buckets of water carried by each. The piano picked up again and the noise of the crowd returned to full volume.


End file.
